


Stark Reality: A Memoir

by MaxBetta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Autobiography, F/M, Memoir, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxBetta/pseuds/MaxBetta
Summary: Former King's Landing star Sansa Stark shares the story of her rise to fame from small-town life and why she walked away from it all at such a young age.





	1. The Darling of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> This is written from Sansa Stark's perspective, in the style of a Hollywood memoir.

I know what you’re thinking. “A memoir? Really?”  To be completely honest, I didn’t want to write this book. When my agent first contacted me with the idea, I shut it down immediately, and another four times after that.  Who would want to read about my life? I’m only in my late thirties, far too young for a memoir! However, she persisted, and after several long wine-fueled conversations, I decided that I would, in fact, write a memoir. Certain names have been withheld or changed at the request of my attorneys. My story thus far isn’t particularly long, but it was eventful to say the least. I suppose the only way to start properly is from the very beginning.

 

I was born in November of 1981 to my loving and devoted parents, Ned and Catelyn Stark. I was their first daughter, and received the ultimate princess treatment. Everything I wore, slept on, or played with, was pink. I grew up in a home that would eventually contain Arya, my younger sister, and my four brothers, Robb, Jon, Bran, and Rickon. The six of us got along as well as could be expected in a house full of rowdy siblings. The boys kept to their own little group for the most part, leaving Arya and I to ourselves. Arya often teased me by putting bugs in my hair or sticking a toad down my shirt when I wasn’t looking. She was different from me from the very start. She wore pants, never dresses, and she didn’t care at all to be pretty or presentable in any way. At the time it frustrated me that she didn’t care at all about her appearance, but I rather admired that about her as I grew older.

 

My school years were miserable. I was teased for being a ginger, and for having freckles. In my early teens, I wore braces, which brought even more attention to my already awkward appearance. My legs grew before the rest of my body could catch up, so for a few years I was given the nickname “giraffe.” I worked hard at my studies and had good grades all the way until high school graduation. Arya didn’t do as well in her classes, but she excelled at every sport imaginable, earning her several full college scholarships to choose from. By the time I reached my Senior year of high school, my body had filled out more, my braces were off, and I had started experimenting with different makeup looks. I still received loads of attention, but it was mostly from boys, and they weren’t teasing me anymore. They asked me on dates, or to school dances, but I turned down each and every last one of them. By then I had achieved success in the pageantry circuit, and between that and studying for school, there just wasn’t any time left that I wanted to devote to boys who had been so mean to me for no reason.

 

By winter of my senior year, I had won enough pageants to earn the title, “The Darling of Winterfell.” I appeared in several newspaper advertisements, a few local TV commercials, and I was invited to cut the ribbon at several grand openings. People would stop me as I walked down the street and ask for a picture together. My town was very proud of me, so much so that they had my name printed on a brick and added to a walkway in the center of the town square. I squealed with delight the first time I saw it, and took a few photos so that I could see it whenever I wanted. Doing well in school was nice, but the fame and recognition that came from being a beauty queen was out-of-this-world fantastic. I had fans, and the truth was, I wanted more.

 

It was at one of the beauty pageants that I met the girl who would become one of my closest friends, Margaery Tyrell. She and I were the same age, and both were told that we had a “classic” and “pure” look about us, although her gowns tended to be a bit more revealing than mine, especially when it came to how the necklines were cut. She and I would trade hair and makeup tips backstage, and when apart, we would sometimes talk on the phone for hours about boys, school, and the future. One night, we made a pact that when we both graduated from school, we would travel to the West coast together and try to make it as actresses in King’s Landing. We would fantasize at great length about starring in a film with huge well-known actors, making millions, and wearing the best gowns and jewelry that money could buy. Daydreaming about our fabulous future lives as stars became one of our favorite things to do. And months later, when we had both graduated, we did exactly what we had promised.

 

My mother and father were not pleased. They wanted me to go to college and get a degree in something, anything. The truth was, although I loved learning, I hated school. I didn’t like being herded from class to class like cattle. I didn’t like having to put up with bullies, and I didn’t like the jealous looks I received from some of the girls whenever I had won another pageant or they caught their boyfriends looking at me. So, I went ahead with my travel plans. Margaery picked me up in front of my parents’ house and we spent the next week driving across the country in her old mustang. All the while we ate greasy fast food and chatted about what actors we wanted to date, or whether we would bump into any celebrities at the gas station or the market. By the end of our drive, we started seeing large signs for King’s Landing.

 

My time there would spark a drive and determination in me that I didn’t know existed. I would have fame greater than anything I could have dreamed of. I would also have two life-altering relationships. One, with Mr. Gold, would teach me a painful lesson about taking care of myself. The other, with Mr. Black, would have me leave showbiz for a quiet existence with the love of my life. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. The first thing I needed to do as an inexperienced actress was find someone willing to give me a chance.


	2. Landing in King's Landing

We were finally there, King’s Landing, the place where every guy and girl with a dream went to make it big. Our first night in town, Margaery and I pooled our money together to pay for a room in a seedy looking hotel. The sheets were stained and the whole place smelled like bug spray. After checking in, we decided to take a look at how much money we had left between the two of us. Looking at our meager funds spread out on top of the bed we would have to share, it became clear that staying in a hotel would not be feasible beyond a couple of nights. We would have to find an apartment, and quick. Even more important, we needed paying jobs, preferably as actresses.

 

The following morning, after a free breakfast of stale coffee and cold, watery scrambled eggs, we set out on foot. Our hotel was convenient to downtown, so we were able to save money on gas by walking to auditions instead of driving. We proudly strolled down the sidewalks, resumes and headshots in hand, and entered any building that looked like they might be hiring talent. We also stopped by an apartment complex and inquired about renting. The landlord wasn’t eager to rent to two young women with no jobs and zero rental history, but thanks to a few calls from our respective families, we were able to sign a lease and secure our own place. The apartment we chose was a studio. We figured we could afford the rent there even if the only jobs we could find were as waitresses. There was a queen size Murphy bed, which we would share until we could find a sofa. There were stains in the carpet, and the counters, and even on the ceiling. We kept telling ourselves that it was okay because it was only temporary, that we were big stars just waiting to be discovered, and soon we would have mansions next to one another and get together in the afternoons to sunbathe by the pool and sip iced tea.

 

Within 24 hours we were settled into our new place. A few calls came in, mostly from directors who sounded...questionable. One of the agencies we had entered together had a greasy looking man at the front desk who claimed he was a director. He wanted Margaery and I to put on lingerie and wrestle with each other on a cheap faux leather couch while he filmed. He licked his lips and fidgeted with the gold chain around his neck as he described the opportunity to us. We left before he could even tell us how much we would be paid. We laughed about that for a good many years to come.

 

The showbiz work was slow going. Margaery and I both started working at the retro diner around the corner from our apartment in order to make ends meet. I had to dress as Marilyn Monroe, and she had to wear an Annette Funicello costume. It was hokey and embarrassing, but it was work. After months of waitressing and no acting job prospects, I came home late one night to find that a producer had called for me while I was at work. Margaery took down the message, with the words “Sounds legit!” underlined at the bottom. Although I normally would sleep in a few hours the morning after a late shift, I made myself get up early so that I could return the call. Margaery was right, it was a legitimate acting job for a 1920’s gangster film. I was being invited to audition for the role of Dolly Cartwright, and I could not have been more excited. Margaery was excited for me, too, but there was also a subtle look of disappointment on her face. I made the decision then and there that I would never gloat or celebrate too much in front of her. Our friendship meant a great deal to me, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

 

On the day of my audition, I washed the outfit I had selected the week before, convinced it wasn’t clean enough. I skipped breakfast and instead gulped down several cups of bitter black coffee, making sure to brush my teeth before I left. I’d hate to miss out on a job offer because of coffee breath. During the audition itself, I was nervous. My hands were shaking a bit and I had a difficult time making eye contact, but I remembered the lines they had given me on a printed sheet just minutes prior to my entering the room. There was a table with four producers sitting behind it, and also the man I was told would be directing the film. They took turns leaning toward one another and whispering. I thought I had a decent shot at the part, but then the producer closest to the door said, “We’ll call you.” That was showbiz speak for, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Defeated, I started the long walk back to the apartment complex.

 

By the time I made it home to Margaery and the pot of spaghetti she’d made us for dinner, I was soaked head to toe thanks to an unexpected storm. I wasn’t hungry. I made myself a hot mug of tea, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sank into our secondhand couch. Margaery knew not to ask how things went, she could tell by my face that things hadn’t gone as I had hoped they would. For the first time since we’d come to King’s Landing, I seriously thought about leaving. The new was gone. I was losing hope. What began as a fun adventure full of promise was now just several months of poverty and disappointment. I was sure Margaery would have been okay with throwing in the towel as well. Ever the actress, I rehearsed the line in my head over and over.  _ This isn’t working, let’s go home. _ Waiting for the perfect cue, I was about to say it out loud when the phone rang. It cut the silence in the room like a knife and startled me half to death. 

 

I unraveled my cocoon and reached for the phone, answering it in my best cheerful voice. It was the director of the film I had auditioned for just a couple of hours earlier. I got the part. I was Dolly Cartwright. After I hung up the phone, Margaery and I jumped up and down and squealed like little girls. We hadn’t been that happy about something in months. After a few minutes of celebration, Margaery’s face became serious. I knew the reason for her grim expression. She hadn’t yet had a breakthrough. The auditions just weren’t happening for her, and she was having to pick up extra hours at the diner just to be able to pay her half of the bills.  I told myself right then and there that I would take her with me wherever I went. If I made it big and bought a mansion, she would have a room in it as long as she wanted. She was a better friend to me than anyone else possibly could have been, and I wanted to be the same for her.

 

The next few weeks were a blur. Between waitressing shifts at the diner, I attended wardrobe fittings, had my hair dyed black at a salon, and I began a fitness regimen so that I would have the physique of a sultry lady gangster instead of a worm. All the while I studied the script over and over again, often falling asleep reading it and waking up to find it on the floor next to the bed. Margaery was a trooper. She was constantly encouraging me and showing her excitement for my first role, but I could tell that inside it was hard for her. She had found some work, however, as a model. In fact, she was being paid more to model for a national department store’s catalog than I was being paid for my speaking role in a major motion picture, not that I thought about it or anything.

 

One week before filming was to begin, the entire cast gathered at the production office for a readthrough of the script from cover to cover. Everyone who was anyone was there. All of the big stars were at one long banquet table, and then the “little people” were sitting at several smaller tables that were placed around the room. The table seating appeared to be organized based on scenes from the movie, so actors would read next to the people who would actually be in the scene with them when filming started. Each seat was labeled with a name card. I found my place and sat, avoiding eye contact with all of the more experienced actors and actresses, hoping that I wouldn’t be discovered as a fraud and tossed out on the spot. To the left of me was the actor who would be playing the lead gangster, my character’s boyfriend. To my right would be the actor playing his partner in crime, but the seat was empty. One of the producer types got up in front of everyone and made a big speech about how the film was going to be incredible, we would all be part of history, and so on. I could hardly hear him speaking over the growling of my stomach. I hadn’t eaten anything that morning, I was too nervous. I didn’t have any coffee, either. I was worried it would upset my stomach, and I didn’t want to have to leave the room halfway through my lines and then have to explain later.

  
We were about to start when the door to the room flung open. An enormous man dressed in black from head to toe entered and began wandering the room in search of his seat. He looked angry, and miserable, and like he probably hadn’t bathed in a while. I took a quick glance around the room and was filled with dread once I confirmed that the only empty seat was the one next to me.  _ Please don’t let him sit there. Please don’t let him sit there. Please. Please. _ There was a loud slam as his backpack made contact with the table. He muttered to himself furiously, pulling out a notebook, then putting his backpack on the floor and sitting in the chair next to mine. An assistant brought him a coffee in a tiny cup, which looked comical in his massive hand. He never looked at me. Not once. He just kept brushing strands of his long, dark hair out of his face and frowning. I leaned forward in my seat a little in order to read the name card that had been put at his place at the table. I had heard of his name before, and I was familiar with his reputation. You would know of it, too, if I told you his real name. But, for now, we’ll call him “Mr. Black.”


	3. Mr. Black

All my life, I’ve felt that I could read people well. Usually I could have someone figured out within a few minutes of meeting them, but Mr. Black was an exception. Our first meeting at the readthrough didn’t go well. Every time I missed my cue, or read my lines too enthusiastically, he would exhale forcefully through his nostrils. My presence annoyed him, that was clear. He still never looked at me that day, not once. When it was all over and all of the actors and actresses gathered their belongings and began funneling toward the door, I was stopped by the older actress who would be playing the matriarch of the gangster family. She placed a hand on my arm and leaned in.

 

“I don’t know how you even got two words out with him staring at you like that.”

 

I hadn’t noticed anyone staring. “Who?”

 

She leaned in even closer. “The giant grump that was sitting next to you. Every time your head was turned the other way, he was staring at you.”

 

She patted me on the shoulder, smiled, and left. I didn’t know what to think. Clearly he hated me. Something about me was offensive to him. Maybe it was my youth, or my excitement. Maybe it was the fact that he was a seasoned well-known actor and they sat him at a table with someone as inexperienced as I was. Whatever the issue, it wasn’t my problem to deal with. Production had provided me with a driver that day, so I found the only remaining black Lincoln outside and got in. It was very late at night by the time we had finished reading, so the ride home was quick and uneventful thanks to there being no traffic. As hard as a tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about that awful man. Why would he stare at me? Was he trying to intimidate me? Size me up and see what he could get away with? By the time the driver pulled up to the apartment complex, I had made up my mind that I was going to avoid Mr. Black as much as possible on set. I needed to concentrate on my lines and my character, not on some eccentric nutcase that couldn’t even be bothered to say two words to me. I couldn’t stand him. He was awful. Terrible. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.

 

My first day on the set was a disaster. An assistant brought me a black coffee while I was in the makeup trailer, and she accidentally spilled it all over my lap. Wardrobe had a meltdown because the one and only backup costume was two hours away. The air conditioning unit in the makeup trailer broke, so all of the makeup that had been strategically applied to my face was mixed with generous amounts of sweat. I looked like a melting porcelain doll. Halfway through the process, one of the producers came in, took one look at me, and said, “Why don’t you just observe for today, you can do your first scene tomorrow.”

 

I was devastated, but I understood. So, my first day on the set was mostly spent walking around, watching the behind the scenes action, and standing on the sidelines while the male actors, who needed very little makeup and who were supposed to look disheveled, filmed their scenes. Mr. Black was there, and he was as weird as ever. I actually saw him look at me this time. When they were between takes for a fight scene, he was taking direction from a choreographer when he looked past them and right at me. I kept eye contact for as long as possible. I wanted him to know that I was not the sort of woman to be intimidated by a man just because of his size or experience. He then proceeded to avoid me for the rest of the day. I saw him once more, in the cafeteria line, and he didn’t look at me or say a word. He just grabbed his order, three platters of food, and walked briskly toward his trailer.

 

By the time nightfall had come, I was exhausted, and I hadn’t even done anything! An assistant saw me waiting for a driver and assured me that the makeup trailer AC was fixed and ready to go for tomorrow. As the sleek Lincoln pulled up to the curb, the assistant opened the door for me and I slipped inside. As tired as I was, there was no masking my excitement. Being on a film set was the thrill of a lifetime. I couldn’t wait to come back the next day and start my first job as a real actress.

 

The six weeks that I spent filming my first movie were some of the most exciting of my entire life. Having my hair and makeup professionally done and then getting to wear the elaborate hand-stitched costumes all made stepping into the character of Dolly Cartwright almost effortless. My first scene, I only had one embarrassing moment. I flubbed one of my lines and I knew I had wrecked the whole scene, so I said, “Cut.” It was quickly pointed out to me, by several actors and crew members, that only the director has the right to say that word, and that I was to keep going even if I messed up. I apologized, and everything was fine afterward, but that one mistake ran through my head probably a hundred times throughout the rest of the day.

 

The rest of my time filming went surprisingly smooth. I learned so much from the other actors around me, and their support put me at ease. The experience working on that set taught me more than any drama class ever could. It was great to feel like I was part of the team, I was actually one of them, not just someone observing from the outside. They also were very accepting of me as a new actress, except for Mr. Black, of course. Mr. Black scarcely said two words to me the entire time I was there. Even between takes when actors would socialize while waiting for lighting or camera changes, he would just keep to himself, often sitting in a chair with his nose in a book. Once, I caught him staring at me, and he quickly shifted his eyes down to his feet. What was wrong with him? His behavior was odd, but in some strange way, it made me want to know more about him. I was curious what his upbringing was like, if he knew how to cook, if he had any pets, if he had a girlfriend. I don’t know why I cared at all if he was single or not, but I did.

 

On the day after filming wrapped, all of the cast and crew gathered at a restaurant for a swanky wrap party. I didn’t have any cocktail dresses, so I went shopping at thrift stores in my area in order to find something to fit my budget. Fortunately, my plan worked. I found a gorgeous red Calvin Klein minidress that looked brand new. It was short, perhaps a bit too short, and showed a little cleavage, but for $5 there was no way I was going to pass it up. I borrowed a pair of nude patent heels from Margaery, and my outfit was complete. When I tried everything on in front of her, she whistled and said I was a man magnet. Since I wasn’t filming anymore, I no longer had a driver picking me up and taking me everywhere I wished to go. So, it was back to walking and public transportation for me.

 

Upon my arrival, I did notice a few men checking me out with not-so-subtle glances. My eyes scanned the room. I was searching for him. I don’t know why, but I was. And I found him. Sitting at a piano in the corner, surrounded by several empty glasses, looking miserable. He didn’t seem to be playing a song, he was just tapping at random keys. I decided to approach him about some nonsense issue just to force him to look at me, and then I was going to walk away, never to speak to him again. I wanted him to want me, for some reason.

 

When I came within four feet of him, he raised his head to look at me, and he stopped playing with the piano. He surveyed me up and down, picked up what was left of a glass of scotch, and stood to face me. 

 

“You too, eh?”

 

“Me too?  What is that supposed to mean?” I was livid. Did he think that I shouldn’t be there just because I’m not famous yet?

 

He stumbled a couple of steps toward me, took a sip from his drink, and looked me right in the eyes for the first time ever. “I meant you’re just like them. Dressed like a whore. You think maybe that dress will get you a juicier role next time?” 

 

I froze. Did he really just say that to me? He gave me a sort of half grin, set his glass down on the piano, and left.

 

I sat down on the piano bench, stunned and hurt. I could feel the ache of tears coming. Why did he hate me so much? And why did I care? A few minutes ago, I had felt like a million bucks. Now, slumped on a bench in the corner, I felt like garbage. I didn’t have it in me to stay at the party any longer. I made my way around the room once, making chit chat and saying my goodbyes, and then I walked to the nearest bus stop and waited. The whole ride home, I stewed over what he had said to me. As soon as I walked into the apartment, Margaery could tell something was wrong.

 

I told her everything. Everything he said, his body language, how it had made me feel...I shared every minute detail, hoping that talking about it would release it somehow and I’d never have to think about it again. Margaery gave me a hug and assured me that I had handled everything well.

 

“You know we have to go out, right?”

 

“Go out? I’ve been sobbing for the past hour, I look and feel like crap. No thanks.”

 

“Sansa, you’re wearing a designer dress, and you look hot in it. I bet if you danced around a bit, you’d have no shortage of guys who agree with me. C’mon, we’ll have a great time.”

 

Margaery knew what she was asking me. I am not a “go out” type of person. I have to mentally prepare for parties, and even then I still dread going to them. I would much rather sit at home with a book instead of dealing with people, especially men. But for some reason, that night I felt differently. I felt that going out and having a great time would be like a “screw you” to Mr. Black. It would be the best sort of revenge, having a fantastic time even after someone tried to bring me down. And who knows, maybe I’d meet a hot guy or two.

 

“Okay, sure, we can go out.”

 

Margaery squealed with excitement and ran into her room. Less than ten minutes later, she emerged in a tight blue bandage dress and a full face of makeup. There was a nightclub just two blocks from our place, so we didn’t even need a bus. As soon as we approached the entrance, a bouncer in a black suit and sunglasses waved us in. The interior was the stuff of my nightmares. Dark with flashing strobe lights, giant lava lamps, loud banging music, and desperate men. We were approached immediately by a couple of guys who could have passed for our grandfathers. We shooed them off and went straight to the bar. Random men in ridiculous outfits and over-styled hair started sending us drinks. The bartender never asked for ID, so I indulged with abandon. I wasn’t going to be driving, so why not? One appletini and three shots of tequila later, no one was going to stop me from getting on the dance floor. I shook everything I had, and then some. I could feel the beat of the music pulsing through my body from my toes all the way up to the top of my head. Margaery was next to me, pretending to dance, but really she was there to catch me in case I began to fall over.

 

I was gyrating my hips to the beat when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around, quick enough that I almost lost my balance, and glared at the man before me. He had to have been almost seven feet tall and at least three hundred pounds. He was wearing a purple suit with a black shirt underneath.

 

“My boss would like you to join him for a drink.” He gestured toward a booth in the back corner. In it was a blond haired young man and several scantily clad ladies. I made my way over, slowly and cautiously. I didn’t want to fall in front of someone who was important enough to have their own booth. As I approached, I could see things a bit clearer. The ladies were wearing the same style dress but in different colors, all covered in sequins. The light reflected off of them was almost blinding to me in my drunken state. Then I saw him. It wasn’t just any blonde man, it was THE blonde man. He was the biggest male star in King’s Landing at that time. His films made millions upon millions. He owned at least half a dozen mansions, two yachts, and a collection of sports cars that were worth more than most people spend on a house. As I came closer, his icy  blue eyes drew me in. His was the name on the lips of every entertainment reporter, and the name that I would grow to hate more than any other. But for the purpose of storytelling, we’ll call him, “Mr. Gold.”


	4. Mr. Gold

Mr. Gold was everything I could want in a man and more. He was perfect, or at least a young inexperienced woman’s idea of perfect. The thing about rose colored glasses...they make it difficult to see the red flags. After the night we first met, Mr. Gold courted me aggressively. He was constantly calling or texting me, sending me lavish gifts, and whisking me away to Michelin star restaurants and exotic destinations. I fell for him. Hard. What could possibly go wrong? He acted like a perfect gentleman, he was rich, and he spoiled me rotten. Less than six weeks after we met, he asked me to move in with him. I immediately said yes. This was going to be the life I had dreamed of as a little girl back in Winterfell. 

 

Margaery panicked when I told her I was moving out. It wasn’t because of the rent money. She had really begun picking up steam in the modeling world and was able to afford the rent all on her own. She was worried that things were moving too quickly between me and Mr. Gold and that one day I would wake up and find myself trapped in a life that wasn’t what I had thought it would be. I didn’t respond to her advice well. I took it as jealousy. I figured she was envious that I was dating a big celebrity, and resentful of my budding film career, and she wanted to hold me back so that I wouldn’t be more successful than she was. Looking back, my behavior during that conversation is one of the moments in my life that I deeply regret.

 

I left in a furious rush, and Mr. Gold paid for a moving crew to come to the apartment, pack all of my things, and bring them to his place. He assured me that Margaery wasn’t a real friend, but that it didn’t matter because he would always be there for me. I tried my best to settle in, unpacking boxes and finding a place for what little I had in his massive estate. All the while, I angrily thought about Margaery and the friendship we had that now was most definitely over.

 

Days and weeks went by and I never heard from Margaery. To be fair, I didn’t make any attempts to contact her, either. In the meantime, I was busy being Mr. Gold’s lady love. I was the only woman in his life now, other than his mother. I made it clear to him the night we met that I wouldn’t date a man who was surrounded by a group of women, so he sent the other ladies on their way.

The press had a field day once we were spotted out and about by the paparazzi. We were given one of those awful nicknames. Tabloid magazines constantly speculated over whether I had a baby bump or if I was just fat. That was fun. Mr. Gold attributed his success to controlling everything in his life. He manipulated reporters, the paparazzi, and eventually...me.

 

I was young, naive, and inexperienced. I thought him wanting to be involved in every aspect of my life was adorable, a sign of devotion, and proof of how much he loved me. Nobody told me that a man wanting to be part of my every thought and decision wasn’t healthy. I would realize quickly that his love, if you could even call it that, was conditional. He wouldn't have to blow up at  me if I didn’t question him. We wouldn’t have nearly as many arguments if I slept with him every time he wanted it. I wouldn't have to lock myself in the bathroom for a sobfest if I picked up after myself better. He wouldn’t have to call me names and give me the silent treatment, ignoring my calls and texts for days on end, if I cooked all of his food just the way he liked it. I never knew where I stood with him, and I never knew what would set him off. Every morning I would wake up feeling like it was the day he would dump me. I lived my day to day life walking on eggshells, and I hated every minute of it.

 

It was just as Margaery had said it would be. I was trapped. Within a few days of my realization, news broke that Mr. Gold was nominated for a Golden Stag award. It was THE awards show every year, and all of the biggest stars showed up whether they were nominated or not. The red carpet segment beforehand was almost as long as the awards ceremony itself. To my surprise, instead of breaking up with me, Mr. Gold invited me to go as his date. He had decided that we would walk the red carpet together for the first time, letting the whole world know that we were a serious item. I was so excited that I completely forgot about all of the hell he had been putting me through. I prepped for a full six weeks beforehand, going on a crash diet and doubling my workouts. Instead of coffee with cream every morning and a glass of red wine every evening, I sipped hot lemon water and perused gowns in fashion magazines.

 

One week before the big night, I had a full-body wax session. The day of the awards show, a makeup artist and hairdresser arrived at Mr. Gold’s place to get me red carpet ready. When my hair and makeup were done, I slipped on the floor length navy satin gown that I had chosen and took a glance at myself in the mirror. I had never felt so beautiful in my entire life. A stylist was there to do a last-minute fitting on the gown. It had to be taken in a bit, I had lost even more weight in the past few days. I looked great, but I didn't feel well. I was tired and hungry all the time. As thrilled as I was to attend the Golden Stag Awards, I was equally excited to get back to eating like a normal person afterward. 

 

As our limo pulled up to the end of the red carpet, I did one last second check on my makeup. The color on my lips had faded, so I began to reapply it. 

 

“Lipstick on a pig” Mr. Gold muttered under his breath as he gazed out the window.

 

I froze. “What do you mean?”

 

He turned to look at me. “I mean putting that grease on your face isn’t going to hide the fact that you should have lost more weight. Look at the other women! They managed to be thin. Honestly, Sansa, you have no self discipline.”

 

My hand that held the lipstick was shaking. I felt the tightness in my throat and the ache behind my eyes, signaling that tears were about to come. I put my makeup away and just sat there, trying not to be something he hated. I didn’t want to cry, not here, and not after he spent thousands of dollars on a professional makeup artist in an attempt to make me look beautiful.

 

“I swear it, Sansa, if  you embarrass me tonight we are over. You hear me? You’ll go back to living in your little rat infested box with that slut Margaery. Is that what you want?”

 

I didn’t have the strength to talk back to him, so I just shook my head.

 

“Then stop crying. Come on, it’s our turn.”

 

I obeyed. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt that my life depended on it. Mr. Gold had a raging temper. I saw it often, but tried to avoid it as much as possible. Someone opened the door and Mr. Gold exited first, then he took my hand and helped me out of the limo. We spent half an hour walking the red carpet, stopping and posing for photos, dodging overly personal questions. He had his arm around my waist for every picture. His grip was tight and possessive. It didn’t feel like we were together in a relationship, it felt like he owned me.

 

After being ushered to our seats, I sat there quietly for the rest of the evening. I didn’t make conversation or take trips around the room during commercial breaks. I just wanted it to be over with. Toward the last thirty minutes of the show, Mr. Gold’s category was up. Best Actor in a motion picture. The nominees were announced, the envelope was opened, and his name was read aloud. He bounced up from his seat, and I stood even though I didn’t want to. He placed a brief kiss on my cheek and practically leapt up the stairs to the stage. He gave one of those “Oh my gosh, I’m so unprepared” speeches that had so obviously been prepared weeks ahead of time. I grinned and tried my best to look like the loving, perfect girlfriend I was supposed to be. There was a camera less than three feet from my face, catching my every expression. I waited for the mention of my name, but it never came. I don’t know why I was surprised. As the music played him off, I sank down into my seat. A singular thought hit me like a ton of bricks in that moment. He didn’t appreciate me. He would NEVER appreciate me. 

 

Mr. Gold never returned to his seat after the show was over. I looked around like a lost puppy searching for its owner. I finally found him backstage flirting with another actress. She looked uncomfortable. Looking irritated that I had interrupted him, he hooked his arm in mine and we left for the after party. Within seconds of walking through the door, he said, “Have fun” and disappeared into the crowd. That was the last time he would ever speak to me.

For my own health and well-being, I needed to end the relationship, that was clear. However, the biggest celebrity party of the year was not the time or the place to do it. I found myself standing in line at a fancy champagne bar. My first glass of alcohol in hand, I decided to circulate around the room. Some of my favorite actors and actresses were there, sipping their drinks and telling incredible stories. As I moved toward the back of the room, I was greeted by a surprising sight. It was Mr. Black, standing in the far corner in a tuxedo. He was looking at the floor with an annoyed expression on his face. He looked good.

 

The smart thing to do would probably have been to ignore him. Of course, I chose a different option. In my eyes, approaching him would let him know that he didn’t get to me with his atrocious behavior at the wrap party. He would see me looking fabulous and feel badly about how he had conducted himself. Then, I would walk away, leaving him full of regret that he squandered any chance he had with me. This was an excellent plan.

 

I approached him like one would approach a wild animal. “I thought you hated parties.”

 

He looked up at me briefly, then focused on his drink.  “I do. Studio said I had to make an appearance.”

 

“How long will you stay?” I kept my head high and my shoulders back. In my pageant days, a body language expert said that was a sign of confidence.

 

He looked at me suspiciously, as if he were trying to figure out my motive for asking. “Actually, I was just about to leave.”

 

He set his drink down on a nearby table and slowly began walking toward me. He was looking me directly in the face without blinking. A couple more steps and he leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “Hope you enjoy your evening as much as he's enjoying his.” He pointed to the other side of the room.

 

Mr. Gold, ridiculously drunk, was surrounded by a harem of women. He was giving them all kisses, wrapping his arm around some of them and flirting loudly with others. I watched him intently for a few minutes. At one point he slipped one of the ladies a small piece of paper, likely his phone number. He put his hand on the waist of a busty blonde in a clingy hot pink bandage dress. I felt like I was going to be sick. This was our first big event that we attended together as a couple, and I knew it would be the last. Mr. Black was probably getting great satisfaction from seeing my personal life implode. I couldn’t let him think he was right, I had to pretend everything was fabulous, if only for the night. I turned to tell him that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but he was gone.

 

I spent the rest of the evening in the corner, drowning my sorrows in champagne and counting the number of tiles in the ceiling. I stopped at 337.  By the time we left, it was well into the morning. The sun had been up for almost an hour. Aside from being drunk, I felt surprisingly good, because I had clarity. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? The peace that comes along the moment you give up on something that wasn’t really all that great anyway. I sat in silence the whole ride home. My facade was stoic, but I was smiling on the inside. I was going to break up with Mr. Gold. He would likely go ballistic on me, then pass out from a combo of being drunk and sleep deprived. It would give me just enough time to grab the few belongings he had permitted me to bring into his place and scram.

 

I showed up on Margaery’s doorstep soaking wet from walking in the rain and carrying a houseplant in one arm and a duffel bag in the other. I wasn’t able to call her because Mr. Gold owned the phone I had been using, and I didn’t want to take anything of his with me. When she opened the door, I fully expected her to slam it in my face. That was, after all, what I deserved. Instead, she welcomed me with open arms. I apologized over and over and told her that she had been right all along. She made me a cup of tea and we sat on the sofa and talked for hours. It was as if no time had passed between us.

 

As for Mr. Gold, he and I never spoke again. He got married a few years later to an actress who had the reputation of being a “good girl.” She wouldn’t sleep with him unless they were husband and wife, so he chartered a helicopter and they went to Vegas, getting hitched in one of those 24-hour chapels. Five years and three children later, she filed for divorce. The last I heard of him, he was doing his fourth stint in rehab for alcoholism, drug abuse, and his addictions to gambling and sex. He lost the very home I had shared with him in a single hand of poker.

 

There are men that behave horribly because they are awful people. And then, there are men who lash out because they don’t know how to be loved. One of the greatest lessons of my life was learning the difference between the two.


End file.
